Midnight Clear
by AMiserableLove
Summary: It's somewhat bittersweet; sleep evading her on a night like Christmas Eve.


_**A/N: Just a little Christmas drabble...**_

_**Disclaimer: I don't own OUAT, obviously.**_

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><p>It's late.<p>

Well past midnight.

And she can't sleep.

Everything is hushed and quiet save for the creaking groans of her tiny cottage—_her cottage_, it still thrills her to have a place to own and call her home—as it settles and protests against the harsh rush of howling wind and the heavy weight of still falling snow.

It's been snowing for days now.

Heavy fat flakes completely covering the ground and turning their tiny seaside village into a winter wonderland of fluffy whites and icy silvers.

(And her heart aches a little as the wintery scene throws her back and images of blonde and blue flash before her eyes—a friend she misses dearly and a sister—_a mother_—she'd very nearly forgotten.)

(And she can't help but wonder if they celebrate something like Christmas in Arendelle.)

Shuffling her way down the stairs, the angry creak of steps as endearing as it is annoying, she shoves her arms through her robe and attempts to not trip over her feet and fall flat on her face; cursing her lack of grace as she falters on a slight stumble, using what little light is coming from the still lit Christmas tree in the living-room to guide her way as she slowly pads across the chilled hardwood floor.

It's somewhat bittersweet; sleep evading her on a night like Christmas Eve.

Growing up in the system it had always been something of a ritual to spend the 24th hoping, wishing, waiting, even praying for something,_ anything,_ other than the miserable life she'd been accustomed to since before she could remember.

Maybe this year she wouldn't be forgotten.

Maybe this time, this Christmas, things would be different…

Maybe, maybe, maybe…

It's a difficult thing, to have hope as a child in an often times too cruel and hopeless world.

Coming to a stop in front of the tree—big and fat and drooping from the weight of too many ornaments—she smiles a little, taking in the sight of the twinkling lights. Strands of serene white and bright and vibrant oranges, reds, blues and greens.

(Classic and traditional versus fun and festive colorful had been a topic of great contention in the little cottage until finally and with much—_childish_—objection, the opposing parties had reluctantly agreed on a compromise of stringing the tree with both.)

Reaching out a hand, she fingers a silver bulb with tiny hand-painted blue snowflakes on it, her smile faltering a little as her eyes drift to a happy fat Santa Claus hanging from a branch nearby—his belly full and round, his cheeks red and rosy and a sack of toys spilling at his feet.

Staring at his porcelain face, she doesn't want the memories to come…

_"Why are you writing a letter to Santa, Emma?"_

Stubbornly she steels herself against them…

"_What a stupid thing to ask Santa for Emma."_

But they creep into her unguarded and unsuspecting mind anyway…

_"No Emma, Santa's not coming."_

_"Santa wouldn't want you to cry Emma."_

_"Try harder and maybe Santa will bring you something next year Emma."_

_"Santa doesn't leave gifts for bad girls Emma."_

_"Only rich kids get presents from Santa Emma."_

_"Don't be stupid Emma, Santa's not real."_

"Stop." She says the word softly; to no one in particular, save for the lingering and cutting ghosts from her past that stubbornly haunt her.

Swallowing over the slight lump in her throat, she pushes her memories aside halfheartedly, too tired to really and truly scold herself for knowing better—she's stronger now, they can't break her now, she's _not_ that little girl anymore (except she is, deep down a part of her still is)—instead directing her focus to another ornament that rests near the upper branches just beneath the brilliantly shining star on top.

A little clear glass tree that Henry had (grudgingly) helped Mary Margaret make on a day that had been full of impromptu snowball fights, too many cookies and carols sung horribly out of tune. The word**_ FAMILY_** is painted on the bottom in delicate white, the rest of the small tree completely covered in the names of those she holds dear—so many that both the front and back of the ornament are full of her mother's deliberate and soft script and Henry's boyish and impatient scrawl.

And she can't help the shuddering breath that escapes her lips as she stands in the dimly lit living-room, in front of her Christmas tree, those she loves sleeping soundly in their beds as she blinks up at the home-made token—a reminder of what she had spent so many years wishing for and now finally,_ finally_ has.

Reaching up, her hands trembling a little and her eyes more than slightly blurry, she plucks the ornament from its perch on the tree and wraps her hands around it securely; holding it to her chest as she moves away from the glittering branches and to the nearby couch before shakily lowering herself down.

"It's okay." she murmurs softly, quieting the voices in her head that have whispered to life; memories and images from a time long ago (but not long enough to be forgotten) now bombarding her with perfect and precise clarity. "You're okay."

And clutching the keepsake to her, careful not to hold it too tightly for fear of cracking and breaking it, she closes her eyes, shaking her head against the pictures and visions of her past and telling herself that she can finally fall asleep now.

It really is okay.

This year, this time, she has everything she needs.

Everything she could ever hope for.

_Wish for._

And repeating the mantra softly, she wills herself to rest; the soft reassurances only dulled out by the faded memories that flicker behind her closed eyelids of a broken little girl with slightly wild eyes and a trembling and desperate smile, wishing on the biggest and brightest star in the sky, her soft words ringing and echoing in her ears…

_"A family. Please, please bring me a family this year."_

(She wakes to the sounds of banging and clattering in the kitchen, the hushed whispers of Henry and Killian as they argue over the proper amount of cinnamon one should add to a cup of cocoa and "_no lad she prefers two dollops of the cream not one_", a blanket draped over her body and her Christmas tree nearly overwhelmed by all the brightly wrapped packages lovingly placed underneath it.

Her tiny hand-made ornament carefully put back in place, proudly hanging on the highest branch.)


End file.
